This Morning at the Christmas Market
The main square is crowded. And yet there are no crowds in my way. The many people, wrapped in winter coats, caps and gloves, cluster around the Christmas sales, leaving me with enough space and no regrets.
It’s a cold day. I can feel the winter thud down in my chest despite the hint of warm cinnamon in the air. The guy selling Christmas curios asks me to take a look at the handcrafted Croatian artwork lining his stall. “Best in Croatia,” he assures me. The cherubic angle with blue wings and squint eyes suggests otherwise. I smile, shake my head.
I’d really like a glass of hot wine but it’s a bit early to start drinking; even holiday drinking. I tighten my scarf and prowl the stalls instead.
The stalls are built like log cabins. They come stacked with food and Christmas kitsch, all that’s missing is a fireplace. The more I stare at them the more they remind me of the house in the woods that lures Hansel and Gretel: the bright colours, the gooey cakes and the heaps of candy. I wait for the witches crackle: car horns come blaring through.
When my nose feels like it’s going to fall off, I look at my watch. It’s still early. Left with no choice I step into my favourite bookstore that stands quietly at the edge of the square. It’s warm and smells of crisp paper.
Paper trumps cinnamon.
I forget all about the hot wine.
In Stone and Glass
Drilling sounds and yellow cranes are becoming an all too familiar sight across Zagreb. Pausing along the promenade encircling the old town, standing over the city, I trace the multiple changes taking place.
The inner city is terracotta rooftops and baroque domes. But further out it’s only glass and concrete. Even from here I can see the cranes strain, laboriously lifting raw materials to form unappealing blocks. They are no match to the old, depressing communist buildings, no they are almost stunning in comparison, but in an empty, soulless way. On the far left, close to the horizon, the steel frame of one of the commercial buildings catches the sun and throws out blinding sparks. I squint and turn back to the domes of the past.
But even at the heart of the city, the drilling machines have managed to sneak in. On Illica, the main street, the ground trembles, the soft white and cream trim on the old buildings are coated with dirt and the gargoyles spend sleepless nights as a new shopping mall rises. The project has taken a while; there have been protests, but work has resumed. They say the integrity of the old centre will be maintained, but no one is sure. Like me, many fear that in this mad dash to modernize the city is replacing its ghosts and legends with shiny, lifeless glass panes.
A Tale of Two Airports
Zagreb: It’s a forty minute drive to the airport. Since it’s early, and our taxi driver is high on caffeine, we get there in thirty minutes flat.
London (Luton): It takes forever to get to the airport. After the first hour, the journey is a blur. Between the road work and road diversions, traffic jams and road rage breaks, my blood pressure rises and falls faster than you could say Go!
*
Zagreb: I rub left over sleep out of my eyes. And then again. I can’t believe the crowds that have turned out today. There are more people queued up at the check-in counter than there are at the airport cafe; a novelty in these parts. The airline agents looked hassled and overworked.
London (Luton): Outside, it’s so cold it hurts to breathe. Inside, there’s raging chaos. Flight are either delayed or cancelled (later we’ll see a row of docile planes standing still, nose buried in the ground, like grazing sheep). Ours though is on schedule. We scurry into line before they change their minds.
*
Zagreb: A child screams somewhere in the line. A bag is dropped. A lady excuses herself, the others save her place in the line. Most of the flights are on time so there’s no panic. We check-in our luggage and head out for a coffee.
London (Luton): People are screaming instructions in a hundred directions. The lady in the next line is being asked to pay £65 for exceeding luggage limits. She howls and pleads. The airline official repeats the sum and looks away. By the time we’ve checked-in, it’s time to race across the airport, to security check and the gate a mile away; we’ve got our running shoes.
*
Zagreb: I smile like a crazed fool at the hint of a non-Croat (native) English accent. They are hard to come by in this nook and I relish every home grown syllable.
London (Luton): I smile like a crazed fool at the hint of the English accent. These days they are pretty hard to come by in this nook and I relish every home grown syllable.
*
Zagreb: Our dark blue passports (with a golden emblem) create a major stir. This happens every single time we cross Zagreb immigration. First there is the insane flipping of the pages. Then there is the staring before a second phase of page flipping. This is followed by a long, animated discussion, which prompts much punching of the keyboards, reaching for files and more flipping, and then eventually down comes the stamp. We shift our expressions from frustrated to indifferent, depending on the day.
London (Luton): Our dark blue passports (with a golden emblem) and the immigration’s officer are old, old friends. Sometimes on very good terms, at others a little estranged. But either way, there is a lot of history there. He knows his way around every watermark and every stamp. Even before we finish answering his questions (disguised as conversation) he stamps our entry into the country.
*
Four Squirrels Scampering in the Snow
I watch four squirrels run up and down a pair of snow-lined trees. The wood is damp and dark; the branches arch off in different directions, striking poses that remind me of oriental dancers. The squirrels disturb the comfortably sitting snow; small, furious flakes fly down from the branches and bark. Their running forms create shifting smudges on the white canvas.
Something about the furry with which they moves spells panic. They run up and down, up and down, up and down. Their little paws work furiously and their eyes dart around; the scampering continues. Maybe they were lazy. They thought they still had time to gather their nuts and pile up for winter. Maybe they are lost, searching for the rest of their party, but all the holes are filled with snow. I understand their confusion. Just a few days ago it was dry and bright. You could still spot the odd flowers and fallen leaves. Now everything is lost under an icy slush.
Even the benches in the park below, benches that are never empty, have lost their daily patrons to the snow. I miss the clique of bakas that gather in the afternoon. From my balcony I watch their hands talk, and their heads fall back in laughter. The playground is empty too, as it tends to be at this time of the year. No sequels of joys, no screeching tantrums climbing up the slope. My afternoons have become very quiet.
Twice a day, in the mornings and late afternoons, I spot a dog or two shuffling along the walkway; the owners follow slowly behind, hands stuffed deep in wool-lined pockets and head bent low. The dogs themselves do their business with little fuss; no summer curiosity, no sniffing around for hidden treasures or adventures. I sometimes wonder if they’d rather pee into a potted plant at home. Despite their coat of fur, surely they must get cold.
I am. From the minute I wake up to long after I’ve fallen asleep. I can feel slices of cold creep in through my soles and up to my fingers forming icy webs in between. It’s putting me in a state of permanent brain-freeze. Everything I do is iced with lethargy. I even type slowly these days – q-pause-w- pause-e-pause–r-pause-t-pause-y. And my mind prefers to slip back into warmer memories than tackle the to-do list. I give in and take the trip. Later, as a deadline approaches, l’ll panic and scamper, like the squirrels, in search of the now covered holes.
